Ch. 1: The Quest of the Nine Hills
Forest looked around as he opened the gate. His mom’s car wasn’t there. He unlocked the door and made himself a sandwich or two: mayonnaise, cheese and P&P loaf (he never could remember whether that stood for Pickle and Pimento, or Pepper and Pimento). Absently munching, he headed up to his room. Off of his desk he drew the cardboard cover he had rigged to cover the painting. He did not survey it, only studied it with an artist’s care to make sure everything in it was complete. He chose as frame a black square of artist’s pasteboard on the verge of which were taped delicate silver shapes, cut with a paperknife out of tinfoil: curliques and stars and strange convoluted shapes, silver on black. Amid this, very carefully with a thin film of glue, he fastened the painting. He could hear Mom pulling in, and taking it he ran downstairs. Where to put it? He tried the mantel and then various places on the wall, settling for an expanse of white wall opposite the door. Mrs. Lake came in as he was finishing. “Oh, you’re back already! How was the hike, honey?” Forest looked at her gravely. “I wanted to show you something.” he said at last, and stood aside, so that the Stars were revealed to her eyes. Mrs. Lake forgot to move. Nearly forgot to breathe. Framed in black and elaborate silver, a window of unbearable beauty had opened in her wall. She seemed to behold another world entirely, where amid a frame of black night trees, upon a gleaming lake, white and silver shapes of indescribable loveliness danced in motion so fluent and graceful that frozen as they were they almost seemed to move. And then she became aware that they were moving, drawing her in, reaching to her; she could hear their cold high singing, passionful and beautiful as ice, hear their crystalline voices behind the world around her that she had forgotten. Unutterable longing and an ache beyond enduring filled her heart and tears flowed unnoticed and her nose was running clear and watery the way it always does when you cry, and then Mrs. Lake began to sob. Beside her Forest stood as if turned into stone: he had succeeded beyond his intentions, he had not merely captured a shard of that beauty, he had created a window into the past, he had called up the memory of that which had been. Quickly rushing forward he took it down and sheathed it. The voices ceased. Mrs. Lake sat on the floor and cried. Weeping for all the beautiful, beautiful things she had known, now gone forever. Odd things you’d never notice: her daughter’s green velvet dress with lace on the edges, worn at Christmas when she was three; Hunter’s funny solemn face with wind in his hair on a sunset hilltop, lit up with gold; how little Bell had acted so cute when having a pillow fight with Forest—did he even think about her, now that over four years had passed? The abstract glow in Hunter’s face when telling her some absurd impossible scientific discovery. Bell picking flowers with dirty hands and face. Gone, gone, all gone through her own fault alone, never to return by her own banishing. She wept harder, great wrenching sobs that hurt her ribs and made her cough. Why was it always like this? Why did love have to die? She reached out for her son, needing comfort of some kind; and through the swimming tears she saw his face as set as stone, and he avoided her touch. “Crocodile tears.” he accused. She heaved a few shuddering breaths. “Wh…?” “If you were really sorry for what you did to us, pick up that phone.” She couldn’t stop the shuddering sobs. “I can’t.” Forest took the covered painting of the Stars and brought it toward her. “Do you want to look again?” he said severely. “It…wo…would kill me.” “Then pick up the phone.” “Just…I…;et me calm down a…” she managed. Forest went into the kitchen and got her a glass of water. Drinking it helped her control return. She sat there, on the floor, reluctant to get up, to even move; for if she moved, she would have to move toward the phone. “Well?” Forest pressed. “Where did you ever learn to be so cruel?” she said, and was angry at herself when she heard how her voice wavered. “I learned it from you.” he answered. She recoiled as if he had jabbed her with a needle. Looking beseechingly at him, she got up and took the receiver that he was holding out to her. Her parents had used an old rotary-dial phone and as she normally had a cell phone, she’d never replaced it. She looked at the large old receiver a little fearfully, got up and went over to the phone where it hung from the wall. Whiirup—whir—r—r—r went the old dial as she put her finger in the little holes, just like when she was a girl, over each number and pushed the dial all the way over, waiting for it to whirr back before she could do the next number. She needed no address book; the number of Hunter Light was branded in her mind. She heard the phone ringing. Three rings; maybe he wasn’t in. The click of a voice-mail: maybe his phone was off, the trial forestalled a little. Then another click, and a voice that had haunted her the last four years, waking or sleeping, was saying, “Hello, hello?” “Is…this Hunter?” she quavered, sounding like a schoolgirl. Dead silence. Then: “Chrissy??” Dazed, incredulous, and wary. “Yes.” she said more firmly. “It’s me.” “Um.” Pause. “How’s everything?” Another pause. “Forest all right?” “You have no idea.” she said, half-laughing and half about to cry. “What’s Bell up to?” “Oh, the usual, school, hanging out with friends, watching movies and helping me cook.” Another long pause. “Um, why the call, is—something wrong?” “If I said there was, what would you do?” she asked. Her voice sounded weird, frittery. “I’d drive over at top speed.” Was that a shake in his voice? And was she imagining the pent emotion in it? “You’re gonna make me cry.” she said. “Forest is…well…listen, Hunter, I…” She blurted it out. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.” She felt herself about to go to pieces again and had to take several deep breaths. “You’re…sorry.” he repeated. “What are you sorry for?” “I’m sorry I wouldn’t marry you. I’m sorry for all the fights. For taking Forest away from you.” She felt her voice beginning to wobble. “I’m so alone here. So afraid. Hunter, I love you.” Had she said that? Babbling like a soft-headed teenager in a romance novel? She blushed like fire. “Can Bell and I come up for supper?” he said, in an ineffably male putting-you-at-your-ease tone of voice. Four years ago it would have irritated her beyond belief, but today it made her want to laugh. “Ah, the eternal quest to eat something besides your own cooking.” she said, relieved to hear her voice sound almost normal. “Sure, come around 7. That’ll give me time to whip up some insane fancy stuff.” She felt, suddenly, ready to bubble over. All was right with the world. There were rainbows in the sky. Hunter wanted to come. “Great! I’ll look forward to meeting you again, Goldilocks.” His voice was the one now that quavered. She hung up in a delirious mood. “What’d he say?” Forest asked. “He’s coming for dinner!” she crowed. “Him and Bell!” “If he asks you to marry him, you’d better say yes.” “Well, why else would he want to come up?” “Just remember,” her strange fathomless son said to her, not even smiling, “I cannot forgive you until you have married him.” She stared at him, her new fear of him back in full force. “Who are you?” she exclaimed. “I am Forest, son of Light.” he answered. “And son of Lake. But water and light are not opposed. Light began as liquid.” “I wish you were just plain Forest again.” she said wistfully as she began digging in cupboards. “The boy who never talked, rapt in his cute little picture-world. I used to try to make you talk, to bring you back to reality—now I’m almost wishing I hadn’t.” “I always was in reality.” said Forest. “You were the one who dwelt in illusions. It was my vision of reality that called you out of them at last.” “Yes, that painting. I’ve never seen anything remotely like it, and I’ve been to art museams too, with those pudgy-faced Raphaels and so unrealistic Michaelangelos—or was that one a da Vinci? You could probably make a fortune out of that if you sold it to the right people—“ “I painted it for you and for no others.” said Forest. “The dancing of the Stars upon the Long Lake is too terrible to be.” He closed his eyes, frustrated. Why could he never say what he meant? Too terrible to be unleashed upon the world at large, '' was what he had been thinking. “Those were ''stars?” said Mrs. Lake, surprised. “Oh wow. I never thought of stars as being…like…” “Starstricken.” said Forest.'' Anyone who looked on them was Starstricken and went mad from the beauty that he saw. '' The hours passed with unbearable slowness. Forest tried to read a book but he found he couldn’t concentrate. Mrs. Lake was keeping herself fiercely busy in the kitchen and a lot of good smells came wafting up. About ten minutes before seven a battered Toyota pulled into the parking lot. Forest had been wandering around outside the house so he could open the gate, and did so with a sense of ceremony. The man of the house welcoming the master of the house. He could barely endure to turn and look at the car. His father got rather heavily out, a little stouter and greyer than Forest remembered. And all the heartache and all the misery of four years faded: Dad was back, that was all that mattered. He felt an enormous grin splitting his face as he went up to greet his father. “Dad.” he said. '' Welcome, ten thousand welcomes, '' he wanted to shout. “Goodness, you’re as tall as I am.” said Hunter Light. This was not strictly true, as Forest was still three inches shorter; but he had been barely four feet high when he last saw Dad. The two men stood for a few minutes, beaming at each other, before they shook hands and Dad was messing his hair like he used to and Forest was grinning like an idiot and saying nothing at all. Bell was standing nearby pretending not to notice and looking her old home over with some interest. Forest tried to remember her and couldn’t: not a shard remained of any memories of his younger sister. She was wearing a fine green dress and had apparently brushed her hair. He felt shy toward her, suddenly: not only was she the tart friend from the library, but his own real sister as well. “Hello, Forest.” she said. “You know, it’s really funny, ever since our WBF—er, Arheled—said we were siblings I’ve been wracking my brains and I cannot '' remember you. I remember Mom, and Dad, and this house, but not you. And that’s so weird.” “Me too.” said Forest. “Freaky. It’s like somebody went and wiped our memories. Can we go in? I’m freezing.” “Oh, um, sure, won’t you come in?” said Forest, leading the way. “Hey, Dad, just for the heck of it, ring the doorbell.” “Why?” said Dad curiously, but he pressed the button anyway. The deep somber ''Ding-dong could be heard even outside. Forest could have sworn he heard Mom give a little shriek, but then she called “Come in.” and they did. Mom had put on her Sunday dress and let her hair down, and Forest thought she looked stunning. She smiled, a shy, hesitant sort of smile, and then Hunter had crossed the distance between them and gave her a close embrace. Forest heard her giggle a little, and her eyes were shining, and then she was hugging him back. “Honey, I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for letting you alone all these years.” Hunter told her. “I said so many awful things…” “It’s my fault mostly.” she said. “I mean…” “Not entirely yours.” he hastened. “That Cornello guy. Him and his snooty girl, I mean, it’s like I was out of my mind or something.” “Yeah.” she said faintly. “Or under a spell….” “You…you’re three times as gorgeous as I remembered.” He laughed a little. “I used to daydream about this sometimes at night…about meeting you again….all the marvelous and witty things I’d say. And now I can’t remember any of them.” “I’ve missed you so much, and I never even realised it.” Hunter Light cupped her face in his hands. “I didn’t bring the ring along,” he said softly, “but I’ll say it anyway: Christie Lake, will you marry me?” Chrissy Lake was overcome with giggles. “You’re not on your knees.” “I can’t exactly kneel with your arms around my neck.” “Forest would never forgive me if I turned you down.” she murmered. “Yes, I will marry you.” Forest and Bell, who were setting the table, gave each other huge grins and high-fived. Their parents were kissing. March left as it had come in—like a lion, cold and windy with wet snow. Two traditions broken at once, thought Ronnie Wendy whimsically: the groundhog didn’t see his shadow because it was snowing, and March neither came nor left like a lamb. He was getting a trickle of yard work now that the snow was melting; that and sawing wood was keeping him busy. He saw his strange landladies maybe once in the last two weeks; but that suited him just fine. The first Sunday of April dawned warm and very windy. The sky was a deep hard blue and the budding redness of the twigs against it looked purple. He biked up to the 10:30 Mass and found Lara there doing the readings. Her eyes had a sort of hard abstract brilliancy from the lectern. After Mass he waited while she chatted with a couple old ladies and finally said, “Hello, Lara.” “Hi, Ron.” she said. “You done anything on that Quest?” “Not yet; I’ve been working awfully late. I am so tired lately.” “Rough week?” “You have no idea.” Ronnie left her to continue discussing '' The Abolition of Man '' with the little old ladies and headed up Main St, mulling the cemetery rhyme in his head. He was so deep in thought as he pedaled by 1st Baptist he almost didn’t hear somebody shouting his name; but when he looked up, to his surprise he saw not only Forest but also Brooke and Bell, talking to each other. A thickset older man and a very pretty woman were walking a little behind them. Bell shouted his name again and Ronnie biked over. “Hey, guys!” he called. “Hello, Mr. Light.” “Hi, Ronnie.” said Hunter Light. “Oh, this is my fiancée, Chrissy Lake.” “Pleased to meet you. I was just on my way to hiking up behind the hospital.” “Dad, Dad, if Ronnie is with us can we go on a hike? He’s a responsible adult!” Bell was begging. “Well…” said Hunter, glancing shyly at Mrs. Lake, who was pink and giggling, “I did want to spend some time alone with your mother…Oh, all right, fine. But no more than two hours, hear?” “Oh, thank you, Dad, you’re so sweet.” said Bell, giving him a quick hug. She went up to Chrissy and hugged her as well. “See you later, Mom.” “Bye, honey, have fun.” said Chrissy. Forest gave his mom a little awkward wave and headed quickly off before she could kiss him. “You know, this is kind of freaky,” said Bell to Ronnie as he walked his bike beside them, “we were badgering Dad for permission to go hiking behind the hospital just when you showed up. Say, do you know how to get up there?” “I’ve been over Cobble Hill once,” Ronnie said slowly, “and I got in from Rt. 44. Right ahead, in fact.” A side road curved off the main street, parallel and at a higher level, before curving back in: it was quaintly patched and rutted, one car wide, and seemed to be intended solely to serve three or four houses above on the right. A side road slated steeply down. Main Street bent left and the houses ended, a strip of wooded hillside lying ahead. The sun was bright and warm but the continuous wind made it seem much colder. “Um, isn’t that kind of trespassing?” Bell said, glancing at the houses a couple hundred feet away on the right and uphill. “I don’t see any '' Posted '' signs.” said Ronnie. “Anyway, I think the hospital owns down here.” “All right,” said Bell as they crossed the grassy space and pushed past reaching maple twigs, “just don’t expect Lara’s dad to give you a Get out of Jail Free card.” They climbed over an old stone wall. A steep leafy hillside came down on the right, the foot of it running straight north, and on the left flowed the stream from Indian Meadow. Ronnie locked up his bike here, taking his Sunday pants out of his backpack and leaving them in his basket. They plowed diagonally up the hillside under old oaks and occasionally a hemlock. The bright brown of the leaves, the bright deep-green of the hemlocks, the bright hard blue of the sky. Above they could see the big rectangular hospital, and a slope of tumbled fresh-white rocks. Ronnie’s dark blue coat had a long attached scarf of red plaid, the ends of which flowed and fluttered as he moved. “Ooh! A can! “ he exclaimed, unslinging his omnipresent backpack. He pulled out of the leaves a weathered faded aluminum can with an A&W root beer logo from the 80s on it in dull brown and orange. “That must be a really old can.” said Brooke dubiously. “Yeah, I would bet at least twenty years old.” he answered. “Do they even sell that kind? I don’t think you can get a refund for obsolete cans.” “It still says CT on it.” Ronnie remarked as he put it away. “Who knows how long it lay here, waiting in the shadows for someone to find it and redeem its’ long-held value?” “You have, like, an obsession with cans.” “Yeah, I’m a member of the Order of Can Pickers.” “Oh really. Do you have standing orders to pick cans? Don’t you get time off?” grinned Brooke. “We of the Ancient and Benevolent Order of Can Pickers are under a holy obligation to seize and cash every can they see in their travels.” Ronnie said with vast solemnity. “Oooh! Can!” as he picked up a stash of ancient Budweiser’s abandoned by some long-ago hunter. The others were laughing. “What if they are prevented by main force from fulfillment of their sacred duties?” said Brooke ferociously, wrestling him away from the last can. “They of the Ancient and Benevolent Society, Order, and Fellowship of Can and Bottle Hunters must by the laws of our Order pick up every can they see, unless prevented by lack of capacity or other serious impediment.” laughed Ronnie as he fought her off and triumphantly seized the last can. They made their way up the steep and leaf-slick hillside slowly. Farther above thick hemlock mantled the rocks. Brooke asked if that was The Cobble, and if so, why didn’t they climb it? “The gargoyle was not pointing to it.” replied Ronnie. “It was pointing to the middle summit of Cobble Hill. We’ll go there on our way back.” They followed a roughly piled stone wall uphill as the slope lessened. A simply enormous black birch grew on the rocks, its’ base flowing over them. Then they came to an equally huge oak, and climbed up onto a sort of saddle. To the right a shelving narrow knoll of rounded exposed faces of granite swelled under spreading trees. Downhill in front were more houses along Spencer Hill Rd. On the left was a level upland meadow. A small foundation of rough masonry stood on the saddle. “What was this?” Bell said. “Who knows.” murmered Ronnie. “It served a purpose once when all this was farmed, and yet now it sits here forsaken.” He led them out onto the field. Thorns and brambles, red and tangled, were moving in, but much of it was still open, the goldenrod stems flattened by the heavy snow. Ronnie wove his way among the thorn clusters diagonally across the field. “I hope you know where you’re going.” said Bell, breaking off her conversation with Brooke. “Last time I came here, I went that way and had to crawl through thorns to escape.” he said, pointing to the right. “But I found this way on the return trip.” He wove around a clump or two of thorns and ducked under a black cherry hung with bittersweet. The ring-fence of red bramble that sealed off the field had a gap here, and squeezing between solitary canes and the stems of bushes Ronnie led them under the trees. The neeping of frogs interrupted the wind-moan and they came out on the banks of a lovely deep little pond. Barberry covered the near bank and thorns on two others, and trees grew on the high berm that shut it in. “Wow, you could actually go swimming in this.” said Brooke. “The water would be pretty icky.” said Bell. “It won’t get stagnant till June, likely enough.” observed Ronnie. “And if you jumped far enough out, you might not stir up too many leaves.” “I wonder what the water is like.” said Brooke, stooping down to dip her hand in. “And you had to go and forget your suit.” Bell teased. “Well, not today, of course! It would be freezing in this wind!” They followed the berm on the left side of the pond and picked their way across a swamp, filled with scraggly barberry bushes. Uphill it ended at a spring, and there to their interest they found a great clay pipe sunk in the ground and full of water. In which weird slimy green growths were growing. “Well, I guess that water is no good.” said Forest. “Pipes like this need to be cleaned, or they go foul.” Ronnie agreed. “Well, come on. We’re almost there.” “Where exactly is this middle summit?” Ronnie looked around. Through the open trees houses could be made out far off on the right. Hemlocks concealed the view ahead and to the left. “That way.” he said, pointing to the hemlocks. They headed through the barberries and up through the brown and grey wood, shining white in the sun. When they entered the hemlocks they saw a high stony knob rising ahead of them, falling on the west into great blocky masses of mossy rocks. Hemlocks grew on top and among the big stones, and there were several great fallen dead trees. “Wait.” said Forest. “What’s that?” Everyone turned to look where he was pointing. To the right an old red house glared out from behind the hill. But nearby, sprawling over a mossy rock, was what had to be the grandfather of all grape vines. “That’s it.” Ronnie whispered excitedly. “That’s what we’re looking for.” “It’s too close to the house.” Bell was protesting. “Duck low and you won’t be seen. And talk in whispers.” Ronnie ordered. They crept up to the low wall of rock, an exposed face 5 feet high under some small hemlocks, up which crawled the ancient vine. It was the craziest, shaggiest old grape vine any of them had ever seen or imagined. Thin hollow walls of vine ran down to the roots, and a twisted, folded, hollow trunk so old the veins of sap had seperated like cables. At intervals the trunk kinked, V-folded like the layers in folded rock. Underneath was shaggy with uncounted years of shed layers of bark. It snaked in a big loop back on itself like a double S before climbing up into a small hemlock. “It’s dead.” Forest murmered in a tone of disbelief. In a recent storm a tall dead beech tree up which the few limbs of the great vine had been borne to the light, had snapped at the base, bringing all the vine’s life-giving tendrils to slow death in the deep shade. Ronnie picked at the wood of the cordlike sap veins: dry. Forest broke a twig or two: dead and brittle. “Four hundred years and more this vine has grown here, only to die even as we find it.” muttered Ronnie. “But what does it mean? What possible significance can a giant grapevine hold?” “Is there anything else on this hill?” asked Bell. They wandered over the big rocks at the bottom while Ronnie risked his neck on the bluff trying to examine the summit and stay out of view of the house. They gathered again at the old vine and discussed it in whispers. Nothing else like a vine had been found. “Maybe it’s something in the shape.” suggested Brooke. “You might be on to something.” muttered Ronnie. “I wish I’d brought a pen and paper. If that loop matches a letter—or a Tengwar—“ “Better than paper.” said Brooke whimsically and began photographing it with her cell phone. “Whisper.” shushed Bell. “Maybe those kinks…” said Ronnie. “Yeah, if those kinks match Tengwar…no, I don’t think it’s that either…” “Can we sort it out somewhere else?” whispered Bell. “I’m cold.” “Those rocks are cool, too.” said Brooke, holding her phone towards the nearby wall of a bluff. “Folded rocks.” said Ronnie. “That might be it, If the kinks in the vine match the folds in the rocks—“ “You’re reading way too much into this.” “Yeah, probably.” sighed Ronnie. All right, we might as well head back.” They climbed up on the Cobble itself for the return trip. It was much less impressive than it looked: a narrow hilltop, leafy and stony, open on the left with a sudden drop overlooking houses, hemlocks on the right where the hill fell swiftly to Indian Meadow Brook. They descended a steep area to the jumble of rocks beneath the hospital parking lot. “Where did all these come from?” Bell wanted to know. “Blasting.” replied Ronnie. “When they expanded the hospital they ate a good deal of slope.” Skirting the rocks they returned to where they’d entered. Ronnie walked his bike with them all the way to where Brooke had parked. “All right, which hill are we doing next?” he said when they reached Old Baptist. “I want to do Spencer.” “What about Pratt? That sounds cool.” “I’ll concentrate on Case Mt, I guess.” said Ronnie. “I daresay we’ll probably overlap.” Darkness within, darkness without. Primordial darkness, from which all began and into which all would return. Despite the darkness he could see perfectly well, for were not his eyes grown strong, strong with the sight with which he had been gifted? He did not gaze only upon the sealed chamber in which he now stood, but through its’ walls, and the earth and rock behind them, and out across the land and up through tree and sky like the eyes of a bird, out to the dreadful mountain and beyond, plying from village to village of the Five, and yet foiled, stymied by the simplest things. There were dozens of candidates. Impossible to say which ones had actually been called. One’s gaze lingered longest on the College, where most of the Winsted candidates were; after all, the Warden was a tricky one and residence in Winsted was not a necessary prerequisite. '' '' One candidate loomed large above the others in his mind. The one that he could never see. The old Warden thought he was clever keeping the kid out of sight, and therefore out of mind; but Cornello was clever too. He could put ten and ten together. In his mind there was no doubt: the boy who had invoked the Road against him was of the Six. '' '' His fingers worked deftly in the darkness. Slowly the wax took shape, a manlike doll, minute but detailed, the face with recognizable features pricked in with a nail-point. Turning it Cornello rotated it with hands held rigidly outward, rotated west to east against the sun, then held it before a mirror. Black in the black room, it reflected nothing—yet. '' '' “Now, my little Forest,” he murmered, '' “where are you?” Forest and Bell were walking up Williams St, enjoying their truancy. Bell had discovered how simple it was to skip school: you got off the bus at the school yard of Mary Hinsdale Elementary (she’d been transferred there from Pearson for some reason) and went around to the field north of it, where the other kids were on the playscape there or rampaging around the meadow. The long low brick school stood about two hundred yards east of Old Baptist, seperated by a garage, yards and a stony brook in a narrow ribbon of woods. The brook bounded the field on the north and west, tumbling down from Gilbert High. Honeysuckle and wild rose bordered the field under the short scraggly trees. It was easy to jump the fence, ford the brook on stones and then walk up Brookside and down Spencer Hill Rd to the library. Here she met Forest, who was using his invisibility to leave the bus when it unloaded and walk down here. “You do this like every day?” she said to her new brother. “Yup.” said Forest. “Well, sometimes I explore Gilbert or follow teachers. But I usually head for the library.” “Cool. I don’t know why I never did this before. Heck, it’s not like they’re actually teaching anything worth learning! I can read a book if I want to learn history, preferably a Christian book, and a Christian science book while I’m at it.” “Yeah. Science is interesting, but when you have to filter out evolution it is so exhausting. And I learn a lot more when I’m not trying to stuff stupid details into my head to pass a test.” “Still,” said Bell, “I feel a little guilty, you know? cause I’m supposed to be getting educated and here I am goofing off. So I guess I’ll do some reading or history or whatever…” She broke off. Forest had stumbled. “Don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me.” he said in a queer, rushed way. “What’s wrong?” Bell said. Forest wore an expression as if hundreds of ants were walking up him. “Just don’t talk, OK?” “Why? What is it?” she said, almost whispering. “''He is looking for me.” said Forest in a pale voice. Her own flesh crawling, Bell walked on in complete silence. Stare at the ground. Nice strong ground. Part of the earth from which we were made. Look at the sidewalk; the many many fine cracks in the old concrete from the harsh winter, the sand dropped in soft coats as if by a tiny glacier, dusty twigs and a sand-covered soda bottle among the snowpile till. Stare at the ground and you cannot be seen. Do not lift your eyes; not even up to the trees; if you so much as cross the gaze of another being he will see you, he will know you, he will find you and will have you. '' They came to a small side street opening off Williams, the old houses closer and more comfortable here. Forest turned up. It was literally paved with sand, yellow grainy sand and little yellow rocks big as chickpeas strewn in rough bands over the arched tarmac. The street rose. The crawling feel on his skin dimmed. The street made a square L turn and grew steeper, and it was far older, asphalt rough and patchy, the sand thicker. A few straggling old houses staggered on up the hill. Right at the inside corner of the bend stood a yellowed wooden house, the front porches draped in tattered black taps and scaffolding. It seemed blind and eyeless. One more structure stood above it, a sagging yellow garage, maybe once a barn: and the houses ended, though a foundation or two still staggered on up the hill, and the road with them, a concrete barricade painted with big orange X’s walling it to cars. Over this they climbed. Forest suddenly felt the crawling eyes release him. He stood up straight as if he had just dropped a big load. “He has stopped looking.” he said. “Can I finally talk to you again?” “You forget I’m invisible.” said Forest with an odd quirk in his lips. “You’ll look like you’re talking to yourself.” “So, then people’ll assume I have a handset.” “One of the few advantages of cell phones.” “Yes, they make it fashionable to talk to yourself and normalize lunatics.” Bell said lightly. “Who was ''he? And how was he ‘looking’ for you?” “Cornello.” said Forest. He tried to say something else and fumbled. “Magic.” he got out. “He was looking.” “One of these days, Forest, you are going to have to work on using complete sentences.” sighed Bell. '' I do use complete sentences, kid sister; the problem is getting them out of my head, said Forest’s thoughts, and he smiled as if he’d delivered a stinging retort. His sister heard only the continued silence and impulsively said, “Sorry, Forest, didn’t mean to be unkind.” “Um.” said Forest in a positive tone. Bell guessed his meaning and smiled. Beyond the concrete barrier was a road of washed yellow cobbles, loose, the soil long since scrubbed from them. It was a cloudy day but rather warm; the grey light had a warm feel to it. They climbed up this road as they talked. The hill rose steeply before them. Green feathery hemlock grew amid warm-gray oak and ash. They came to a patch of ancient tarmac still clinging to the rocks; the rest had long since been washed away. They were near the brow of the hill: above, a steep wall of tossed ledges scalloped round by the primeval ice blocked the way, and the road curved right to go around it. It was beautifully narrow; if ever it had been paved, even one car would have fit on it with difficulty. It curved up and around to the left in a delightful little loop, the stone brow on the left, the hillside falling away on the right. “This must be what Ronnie called Street Hill.” said Bell excitedly. “At One the Moveless none could rope.” Forest quoted. “I wonder what that could be.” “This was the hill the mismatched spire was pointing to!” Bell exclaimed. “Come on!” Street Hill is a long, narrow granite ridge running NE on the northern end of Winsted. It comes to a sloping end at a point halfway between the horns of the crescent of the Winsted valley, thrusting a steep nose out into the northern suburbs. A gap sunders it from Camp Hill, part of the same ridge but now a flat-topped knob. Around this nose the narrow road climbs, then running on straight it forms a ledge going down into the backyards of West Winsted. Encircled by this U-curve Forest and Bell found a rounded hump of hill-end like a forehead of bare bluish-grey rock, green with moss-stripes and mountain-grass. They saw a rough jeep track following the crest of the hill, so ignoring the road they went up this. It became deeper and more regular, until it was a road in its’ own right. The deep green hemlocks of the hill-crest fell away to hug the leftward slope; on the right there now fell a steep drop, that grew steeper and higher the farther they climbed, until it was a tree-grown cliff. Young sparse hickories and maples stood up from the mountain-grass, green and white where some of the blades had died. Worn and stamped through the middle of this went the road, maybe seven feet wide. The rising hill-crest was narrow, perhaps 40 feet from cliff-brink to steep hemlock slope. The hill levelled. They were travelling along a slender ridge, rounded and grassy. In places the old road showed traces of cobbling, stone sunk regularly into the bed, while in other places it had been washed clean to the rugged bedrock, that rolled, a solid piece, beneath a scant foot of earth. Queer grooves and hollows scoured the surface, in long lines parallel with the hill. A massive rock covered with papery worts stood on the hemlock-fringe to their left. Bell looked at this a little nervously, thinking of the sinister standing stones of Temple Fell, but Forest walked by with scarcely a glance. “It’s only a solitary rock.” he said when he noticed his new sister’s apprehension. “It looked kind of…” “It’s a stone. Not an altarstone. It doesn’t feel.” Bell looked back at the stone. Forest was right, there was no creeping feel here at all. It was ordinary. Another shape became visible through the greyness of the trees ahead. To the right a broad view could be fuzzily made out through the twigs, blue and grey. The hill rose to a height and sank again, and where it sank lay a darker mass, rounded like a bullet case. “You know, I expected we’d see more cans.” said Bell as they passed another fire pit. “But I haven’t seen even one yet. That means that…” “Ronnie was here!” they both choroused. They drew near the dark mass. It was a boulder, immense and mighty, resting on the hilltop. The downhill end was narrower and pointed, like a rough egg, and it seemed to be resting on the bare stone of the hill. A scraping sound was coming from the far side and suddenly a bright spot of red appeared on top. It was, indeed, Ronnie Wendy, wearing a brilliant red shirt. “Hello, Forest, hello, Bell.” he greeted with his warm but ironic smile. “I didn’t expect to meet you here.” “We guessed you came here because of the suspicious absence of cans.” Bell said slyly. “And I heard you coming about ten minutes ago, you pair of elephants.” Ronnie shot back. “I knew this was the Sign of Street Hill; it came to me on the way home. ''The Moveless—couldn’t be anything but the Jumbo.” “This rock?” said Bell. Ronnie nodded. “How’d it get up here?” marveled Forest, walking around it. The boulder had to be about twenty feet long and ten high, and at least twelve feet thick. “The Grinding Ice.” Ronnie answered. “You know, the Ice Age.” “Which one?” Bell said pertly. “There were four.” “There was only one.” Ronnie answered. “You see, your textbooks never give you the field evidence. They only give you the conclusions derived therefrom, which are frequently erroneous. The same evidence can point in many ways. But I delved deeper than your textbooks. I actually read geology books of fifty years ago, when geologists were still concerned with facts and not with theories. The Red Book of Flint was especially interesting. Despite maintaining the four-Ice Ages theory, he then gave the evidence upon which it rests, and admitted one crucial fact that destroyed his whole case.” “Which was?” Ronnie squatted froglike on the stone, his long arms dangling. “The case for four ice sheets rests on weathered till buried by unweathered, and weathered rocks found among unweathered gravel. As well as drumlins buried by later glacial sediment, and glaciated channels with superimposed later glacial markings. But the admission Flint made was that all this evidence occurs only towards the edges of the ice sheet, in southern New England, up in New York, out in Michigan. That means that there was only one Ice Age, which covered the same ground several times. First it came…then it melted. It came again…and melted. I doubt it came four times; a single retreat and advance would cover the evidence given. At any rate, when it melted it left this behind.” “Did the glacier dig out all these valleys?” Bell said. “My teacher says they were eroded.” “The Ice Age seems to have merely smoothed the hills in New England, and then simply stopped moving.” answered Ronnie. “It moved all different directions. Did you see those grooves in the roadbed, on the way up? Those were scraped by the Ice. Over Winsted it seems to have headed in two clashing directions, because Flint gives a recorded direction of SE, but the grooves on this hill move SW. And that is very important. Because it lines right up with the Torrington valley. The valley of the Still River was doubtless begun by water, for its’ sides are polished and rounded, but the Ice finished it, digging down the Winsted valley until it cut Mad River in half.” “Yeah, but why is this rock called Moveless?” Forest said, feeling they were wandering from the topic. “Hey, this is interesting.” “That’s all right.” laughed Ronnie. “According to the Demars annals of Winsted, a lot of folks have tried to push this down the hill. One local strong man tried to do it by hand. He must’ve been at least ten men strong if he thought he even had a chance. Then there was a guy in the excavating business who claimed he could move anything, and as advertising decided to lever this down the hill.” He paused dramatically. “After a day of trying to jack up one end while pulling with teams of oxen from the other, he asked for fifty pounds to start things going. Needless to say nobody wanted to put up the dough, so he was able to back out and still keep his face. Why he never brought in some dynamite I can’t imagine.” “Yeah, that’s '' Moveless none could rope'' all right.” said Bell. Forest was crouched down, peering underneath the Jumbo. It was pointed downhill, toward the cliff, resting on an incline. From its’ nose the slope fell away ever more steeply, and the hickories nearby also leaned downhill, as if poised to plunge. It rested not on earth but on the living stone of the hill; the soil had formed around it from ages of autumns mingled with whatever till the Ice had dropped. Nor did it rest flat; there was a narrow space running under it for quite a ways in and its’ base seemed to be only a segment of itself, a few feet wide. Added to the fact that on the downhill end the recess was higher, it really did look like it could be knocked loose. “You see anything on this rock, Forest?” said Ronnie. “Because that mismatched spire of St. Joe’s was pointing straight for this part of the Hill. And there’s a reason this is the Sign of Street Hill.” “Graffiti.” shrugged Forest. “Anything up there?” “Well, there is a hole drilled into a crack.” said Ronnie. “Probably a last trace of Mr. I-can-do-it.” “There’s…something.” said Forest. Ronnie hopped straight down. “Where?” Forest was standing at the northerly face of the granite boulder. The pale litchen here was darkened in curving streaks of bare stone…as if something, old paint perhaps, had killed the litchen and it was still growing back. Traces of old blueish-grey paint were still visible, and the bands were almost an inch wide, as if sprayed on once. The streaks met, meshed, seperated, a weird faint hierloglyphic upon the enduring stone. “Any of you got a pen and paper?” Ronnie said, quick and sudden. “I want to trace the pattern.” Bell found a pencil in her backpack and pulled a page from one of her notebooks. Ronnie stared hard at the stone, tracing down lines. “I’ll be heading home after this, guys.” he said. “I haven’t got too much time left.” “I guess we’ll push on, then.” said Bell. “See-ya.” “Goodbye.” waved Ronnie. They walked on up the hill. Ahead it began to rise, a last climbing head of grassy wood, the road cobbled with loose small stones. Ronnie had said some ancient developer had wanted a hotel up here and even erected a tower, but no trace of this now remained on the hilltop, unless some scattered but arranged stones had been its’ foundation. They passed a broad outlook over all of West Winsted, the streets of Wallens Hill like a slanted grid, the hilltop rising dark with pine trees above them. Past the summit they came to a fork, one branch leading left. There was no longer a steep fall in that direction; the valley between Street and Spencer Hills had risen to just below crest-level and the branch road descended gently through a rolling forest. It was lovely and green with the tall thick hemlocks and low-growing laurel—“ivy” as the settlers had called it. Patches of snow appeared now in the shady featherlock valley, still patiently melting. One curve of the road, framed by walls of emerald hemlock and the banks bright green with the low laurel, looked with the snow like a gateway to the North Pole. They crossed the low valley and began to climb up a ledge in a farther hill. Trees and bushes were more openly spaced, causing the hemlocks to grow thick foliage in the oddest places. “Not odd,” Forest said aloud, “strange.” “This place feels weird.” Bell muttered, shivering a little. It was cooler under the cloudy sky. But it didn’t feel weird. It felt…''strange''. The way the knotty hemlocks stood, the way the wood was arranged around an odd clearing, hemlock at intervals like conical spires or ragged clusters round as cedars: the wood felt strange, not eerie, not mysterious, and not like Temple Fell. They climbed up the increasingly fainter jeep trail with relief, leaving the strange wood below. The slope on the left was now higher, steep as a cliff, and on the other side of the valley rose Street Hill: they were pointed back southwards. The soil seemed dreadfully thin, washed off the smooth lumpy stone of the hill-skull where the jeep-trail ran: a mere skin. Cedars stood here and there. A big hickory, so swollen and burled with bulging cankers Forest thought at first it was a willow, stood near the edge. Nearby was an ancient maple, only one ragged reaching limb alive, the warty trunk as knobbed and gnarly as the hickory. Wood steps were nailed to it, maybe for a tree house, or a long-fallen hunter’s nest. The thick erect branch was riddled with big woodpecker holes. A little farther on was a round lone boulder, worty and significant, on the edge of the thin-skinned slope. “We’re looking for an oak, not a boulder.” Forest told Bell when she pointed it out. “Well, there’s plenty of oak trees, take your pick, oh, there’s a huge one just below the boulder.” “Then what is that?” said Forest, turning to the right. They had left the hemlocks below them. The slope rose at the same steady gentle grade, open, warm-grey hickories and maples growing among dark-gray oaks on a brown floor of leaves. To the right some way ahead was the square corner of a wide open field, swelling upward, and ahead at the top the trees stood out against another field. They were in a triangle of woods, the fields forming the sides and the edge on the left running diagonally across. Not far ahead was the ruin of a simply gigantic tree. There was no mistaking it for anything but the Oak of the Skinless Slope. Two-trunked, so huge at the base where ancient roots writhed down to grip the very foundations of the hill, that Forest lying full length would not have spanned it, it stood, shattered, eternal, enduring. One mighty half had broken at the base, falling months ago with a crash that must have cracked the very stone it smote, huge muscled limbs and short odd twigs with withered leaves fastened to them sprawled prone upon the floor. The half that stood had sprouted great shoots all along the upper surface of the outreaching trunk and thick powerful boughs. So old was it the heart was crumbling, and one vein of sapwood that remained alive as the trunk died around it, thickening year by slow year as the dead wood rotted away, now stood alone like a column a foot thick, fusing into the trunk higher up at a great knotty junction. The forest around held many older hornbeams, flowing wood over smooth jutting knots and graceful lumps. These had seeded themselves, so that a grove of young hornbeam, slim, tan-brown and straight, ringed the ancient oak like the retainers of a king. “Nothing’s carved into it.” said Forest. “Do you suppose some ancient artifact of power is embedded in the trunk?” Forest shrugged. “I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s that obvious.” Or that simplistic. '' They ate lunch sitting on the great fallen trunk. It was windy so near the open hilltop, and Forest pulled on his hat. “I’m cold.” said Bell. “And I’m tired of sitting still. Can we get going?” The track curved its’ way up through the brown wood. Other oaks and maples of vast age stood here and there, especially on the stonepile that bordered the field ahead of them, but none were half so ancient as the great oak behind them. The field on the right was also bordered by a stone wall; huge drifts still lay behind it like giant white slugs. They passed between the thick reaching trees and out into the open field. A hedgerow divided this from the field on the right, tall trees and bushes atop the stone wall. The entire top of the loaf-shaped hill was open, hay-stubble and short grass yellow and brown covering it. Great lumpy hills loomed around them. In their lap, almost due south, gleamed the Long Lake like a floor of blue-grey glass. First Bay was open, first to freeze and to melt, but past the First Narrows the grey soft ice lay, opaque and white. Steep pine-girt walls plunged down to it from the rolling highland. A lone hill, high and conical, stood to the left of the Lake: Pratt Hill, overtopping the hills around. The piney height of Case Mt. curved around from behind it. Dark, somber gray-purple and black-green were the hills under the white-grey sky. They headed south down the field. The grass ceased and the field was all rough dark-brown/grey weed stubble: evidently idle land recently reopened. A copse of slender white birches, erect purple-red twigs and white stems like a mist, stood out from the wood. The field crested the narrowing brow of the fell’s end and plunged more steeply to a dark wood. Pines and hemlock, tangled oak, even a few spruce. A path appeared leading into the tree-wall, narrow but ATV-rutted in the brown earth. The pines watched them. As they walked through the wood the two children found themselves walking softly, as if afraid the dark glowering pines might hear. The air was oppressive and hostile. They were relieved when the jeep track, with a final twist, left the evergreens behind and headed downward into more open forest. They were in a rising valley between the two limbs of Spencer Hill: the upper, behind them, and the lower, a long sloping hogback of a field that ran on southward along a broad ridge to end just above Gilbert. The track climbed along the hillside, passing a stream. The path wound down the descending valley, into drooping hemlocks, then quite suddenly along a chain-link fence beside a narrow triangular field. A shed stood to the right, and voices carried from the parking lot beyond it. “I know where we are!” Forest said excitedly. “This is the practice field near Gilbert!” “Yeah, and if I ran at light speed I might get to Hinsdale in time to catch my bus.” Bell said lightly. “Is your bus due to leave soon?” Forest looked at his watch. “We’ve got ten minutes.” he said. They made their way out to the bus loading area, mingling with the crowds of teenagers milling around toward the various busses. Forest stared at the ground so he wouldn’t be seen. He whispered the number of his bus to Bell and they found it, filing on board. The bus driver didn’t notice Bell as she had mounted close behind a pair of giggling girls, and Forest sat by the window midway and Bell sat on the outside. Nobody paid them any attention, and they got off behind Julian and Delilah near Wintergreen Island. “You sure your mom—umm, '' Mom—won’t mind me dropping in?” Bell said shyly. “Well, Mom and Dad are getting married next month,” said Forest, “and then you’ll be living with us.” “Yeah, won’t that be cool?” Saturday was a lovely warm day. It was, after all, halfway through April. Brooke felt herself stretching like a cat when she looked at the sun and felt how yummy warm it was. She almost caught herself purring. “You look like a pussy.” her brother teased. As modern parlance was beginning to ascribe to this word a meaning akin to “sissy”—leaving aside its’ darker and uglier obscene meaning—he fully understood and intended the triple implication, and only laughed when Brooke hissed and made mock clawing motions at him. Getting on her bike she bowled down the rolling miles of Boyd St until she was in Winsted. It seemed like the perfect day to poke around one of the Nine Hills. Not having a clear memory of Bell’s map, the only hill she was at all conversant with was Wallens Hill. The sun was clear and bright, although a cool breeze kept it from feeling really comfortable, and Brooke smiled as she felt her hair blow loose and her arms, bare to the wind, tingle. She was wearing grey over blue jeans, with her sweater tied around the handlebars. Main St was full of people walking from store to store, and young people were out enjoying the air, and boys whistled at her as she smiled at them. It was exhilarating, freedom after a hard grim winter. A Fell Winter, the WBF—no, Arheled—had named it. She biked up the side streets of Wallens Hill, higher and higher, until she realized the top of the hill was wooded and untenanted. Gleefully she headed up the last street to the crossway with Wallens Hill Rd. The road climbing up from the old clock factory, as Lara Midwinter had noticed when she drove up it to Riverton, joined Wallens Hill Rd like the leg of a Y: the road came in on the right and curved sharply left between high banks toward the old-style new barn. Brooke turned right. The road grew small and quiet. She passed a few very old houses sinking into the land, trees standing comfortably around. There was a large and very old garden whose fences were thick walls of grapevine, most of it unused with goldenrod pressed flat from the snow. Then a big swell of worted hill jutted out, a craggy face of blocky stone green with moss. Brooke went up a small rise. The road ended. A new development street went downhill to the left, but the sign informed her it was a dead end. And ahead it became a delightful, patched, bumpy, potholed curving driveway, with a sign frowning to trespassers. Privet hedges stood on the left and old barns and fields beyond proclaimed it a farm. Above the drive, which curved over a small rise, on the left was a quaint detailed complicated gardened old house, with the hexagonal barn-like roof common to many older dwellings. Turning around Brooke headed back to the flat between the mossy bluff and the hedged garden, where a huge stone wall across a shallow wet swale fenced off a rising forest. Hiding her bicycle in the lee of this she set off up Wallens Hill. The hot sun was white and shining on the pale brown leaves and pale grey twigs. She climbed up to the top of the slope. White pine grew, bright soft green, some way ahead, but the forest here was open and warm. Following a stone wall she headed west. “What did that rhyme say?...pale on the woodland’s eve?...I wonder what that could be.” she said aloud. Ahead was a junction of walls. Tall skeletal oaks raised long fingers above green pine seedlings. A pine wood lay to the left where the ground began to rise, and another stone wall came out of the woods ahead, bent in a square to the left, and ran into the pines. But what was that straight ahead? A long pale shape like some beached stone whale… It turned out to be a huge pale white-grey-blue rock, extraordinarily smooth, sunk in the earth. “Well, that’s a candidate.” Brooke remarked, passing around to the west side. It was long and submarine-like, pointing north and south, a man’s length or more. Suddenly she stopped. Letters were graven into the stone. She looked closer. Carefully chiselled in square letters it said Robeyt. Ovitt 19 46 Barn-red traces of paint in some of the letters suggested it had once been more visible. Brooke frowned over the second-last letter of the first name: was that a Y, or a lower-case R with a big stem and no down-hook? Robeyt would certainly be an unusual name. “I’m pretty sure this is it,” Brooke muttered to herself, “but I’ll check the rest of the hill to make sure.” She turned her face to the April sun with pleasure. “And then I’ll go and jump in Mad River. Ooh! That’ll be fun.” She walked into the pine wood. White pine mingled with sweeping deep-green hemlock, and thick red-green moss showed the intermittent flat heads, fingerlike spring-green fronds thrusting horizontally from a central stem, of the odd woodland plant she knew only as “creeping vine”, which she and her dad would gather with princess pine for Christmas wreaths. The land climbed steadily. There was a lovely early-morning feel about the sunlight, the pale blue sky, the green trees. She came to the hilltop, a strange pile of stones and cinder blocks under a queer branching oak. Downhill to the west the greenery grew thicker. To the left she saw the immense silvery panels, like outthrust hands on very short arms, that ringed the top of the great cell phone tower on the farther shoulder of the hill. Behind and a little left downhill, opposite from the tower, she saw the farm’s small fields below. Following a high tottering stone wall, Brooke angled down the hillside. She wanted to see if Wallens Hill Rd continued on any further after the farm. Below in the flats she saw a silvery patch, like a pond half-icy still, but a little farther down she realized it was just a broad patch of snow. The wall was single-course, stacked with some care, but much of the crest had toppled, and many sections had fallen outright. A razor-back rock had been built into it partway down. Then she came to a circular structure, stacked rocks making a ring-wall atop a big embedded rock, the ring-wall filled with small stones culled from the field. A plantation of white pine filled half the flat: an old Christmas tree farm, perhaps. Brooke followed the stone wall east along the pines. After some ways she passed a gap in the pines; on the far side they changed to spruce. The forest to her right was light brown with beech leaves. She met another road, and a glance to the left showed she was right: there were the brown barns she had seen from the street, and a grassy lane passing from them right back to her. The road was wet and sandy, and too exposed to view from the distant buildings, so Brooke picked her way through the forest beside it. After a short while enough hemlocks were between her and the barns a quarter mile away for her to take the road. She was surprised to see a real estate sign, blue and white, stuck casually out here in the woods as if on a main highway. A little farther on she came on something that made her clasp her hands and squeal to herself. A deep, clean little drain-pond lay beside the road. The water had an opaque blue quality to it that told Brooke it would probably be full of algae by May or so, but right now it looked perfect. Probably an old pond recently dredged. A rusted pipe emerged from under the road, providing a perfect spot to stand and dive. Brooke undressed quickly. She debated with herself whether to go in all naked or not, and decided in the end to keep her underthings on in case someone came: she was rather close to civilization. She stood on the pipe, luxuriating in the warm sun, the breeze on her skin, the pleasant really cold water so inviting before her. Then she dived forward and felt her body instantly encased in wonderful icy coldness. She surfaced, gasping for breath: it was really cold. She pulled herself out with some difficulty, her feet slipping in the steep mud, and stood on the pipe, gasping and exultant as blood rushed through her and a powerful glow of delirious health and warmth surged up in her. Laughing she jumped right in again. This time she had to climb out quicker: she was chilled wonderfully. It was hard to get a foothold. “If you will permit,” a rough deep male voice said above her. Brooke felt her hand seized by a mighty grasp and then the world turned upside down and she was flying, and then she was on the bank, streaming wet and frozen solid, in the arms of a big, strange, bearded man. She couldn’t seem to get her breath. He was so close, so very male, so attracting and so wild, and here she was, practically naked in his embrace. He was rubbing her cold back, and his hands were warm, so nice and warm, and his beard was silky on her face. She felt a hot fierce blush suddenly rise in her as she realized he was trying to kiss her. She pushed away. “Stop! No! Please, just put me down!” she cried, half laughing. He only hugged her tighter. Alarm bells ringing, Brooke fight for real. “Let go!” she shouted. “But you liked it at first, girlie.” he murmered. His beard suddenly wasn’t there as he began kissing her again, and her mouth was captured, and she realized with a sudden sick dismay that he was right, she did like it, or part of her did, and part of her wanted to let this masterful stranger do what he wished and enjoy it as he did. “Who are you?” she gasped, fighting down the passion. “I’m a wild man, little hottie.” he chuckled. Brooke looked up, half in fascination and delight and half in fear, and saw his eyes. There was something in his eyes that suddenly sent all the passion from her and left her as cold as if her blood was ice. Those eyes were not human eyes. They reminded her…. '' “Release me, in the name of the Road!” '' The effect was so sudden she was astounded. He seemed to be literally blown off of her like a cloud of dirt, and when he stopped he was ten feet away. “Hey, what’s the matter, baby, we were getting along so fine…” he wheedled as he advanced quickly upon her again. As she stumbled backward she shouted, “By Arheled I compel you!” He stopped as if he had slammed into a tree. She looked at him, quivering as if rooted by some unseen force, looking balefully at her. “What would you have me do?” he asked darkly. “I command you to turn around and not peek so I can get some clothes on.” she said coldly. Slowly, like a great ship revolving, the strange wild man turned his back. She dressed frantically, wadding up her wet underthings and stuffing them in her backpack. Presentable, she looked up at him. He stood with shoulders hunched and head lowered so that it almost looked like he had no head. “You may turn.” she bade him. The strange man did so, and Brooke was able to take in his full appearance for the first time. He was indeed wild. Long rough black hair flowed below his shoulders, and on a grim craggy face a black beard again grew. He had dirty grey jeans and a T-shirt, but incongruously, over it was draped a huge tattered mantle. The eyes were the most frightening thing about him: alive, mocking, with a strange unholy mirth they gleamed in his dark earthy face. “You’re the Wild Man of Winsted, aren’t you?” she said. “Why else would I have been subject to such commands?” he answered in his strange rough voice. “You must be one of the Six, or you would never have known them. And the one whose province is water, to judge by your activity this early in the year.” “I thought you worked for Arheled.” she said. “He seemed pretty moral to me. So he just lets you go around and rape the local girls?” “I am permitted to woo,” the deep odd voice sighed, “but not to force; if she yields to my wooing, she has put herself in my power and he may not intervene, for that would interfere with our free wills. But if I was to force, he would come and stop me before I could consummate; and then I would be punished.” A spasm of such fear, and grim acceptance, flashed through his face, that Brooke suddenly felt a little sorry for him. Even Wild Men get lonesome, she supposed. “I hope it’s not too painful.” she said. The Wild Man gave her a puzzled look. “I am uncomprehensive,” he said, “why should it not be?” “Well, I mean, I wouldn’t want you to be tortured when you hadn’t even done it yet, I mean, we shut rapists in jail or execute them, but we don’t torture them.” “Ah, you still do not grasp it.” he said. “You see, even if I have not fulfilled, I have transgressed. And when I transgress, then I deserve, and when I deserve, I must be paid, whether well or ill.” “He sounded kind.” Brooke protested. “The boss has great mercy, but he only gives it to those who need it. The weak, and the foolish. But those who are strong, such as I, neither need nor ask for mercy.” “But what if you did something deserving of death?!” The Wild Man of Winsted seemed almost amused. “Ah, that may be how it works with you, but for us venda, not so.” His face became drawn, hard, as if gazing beyond her to sights too awful to bear. “There are punishments compared to which death, even a painful one, is a mercy.” Faint visions of horrible implements half-remembered from various movies, shoes of iron heated red, screws wrapped around members, hooks and chains and barbs and twisted devices whose function could not be guessed because it was too gruesome to even be spoken, passed like phantom shadows behind Brooke’s mind at his words. Tears welled suddenly up in her eyes. “I hope your wooing goes well next time, Wild Man.” she said in a broken voice. “Even pity is a consolation and a solace to be grateful for.” said the Wild Man of Winsted. “But cheer up. When I am allowed out, I have more success in my wooing than rejection.” Then he was gone, as suddenly as if he had dropped into the earth, and Brooke in a daze began the trek back to her bike. Lara Midwinter walked up the road winding along the east shore of the Long Lake. A careful study of the library’s topo map had shown there were only a few ways to enter the vast swath of woods between the lake and the wall of Case Mt: houses fenced it in elsewhere. She had parked at Resha Beach and walked up the rolling road under hemlocks. The cove of Resha Beach was left behind, but when she crossed a hump of land another cove thrust in from the right. A side street, lumpily paved, ran uphill on the left between cottages. Then woods closed in, and the houses were left behind. She saw a still-standing deserted cottage under a giant white pine some way in on her left. The pavement ended as the road bent right, a driveway running straight. A high crazy house entirely built of mortar and rock, dated 1790, stood on the left. The road sloped down into a sort of saddle and the pavement ceased: smoothed compressed clay-gravel ran down into the hollow. There was a T-crossroad, and leaving the road she turned left up a side road paved with coarse white-blue gravel: it seemed to be in her direction. Odd little cabins, weird, primitive and lonely, stood here and there far within the hemlock wood, dirt lanes connecting them. Her road abruptly started climbing and became lumpy and stony. She came into a clearing. The forest looked''—burned'', as if half of it had died, but the “slash” of discarded branches told her it was more likely logged. The road, now rolling and muddy from heavy jeep passage, went on ahead into sparse hemlocks—featherlock pines, she remembered Forest had named them on Temple Fell. A smaller logging track headed left into the raspberries, uphill. Lara took it. The track climbed increasingly steeper. Hemlock grew close but were themselves thin-looking and sparse. Lara hoped this was Pratt Hill. She had gotten letters—she still thought of emails as letters—from the others, letters sent “to all” the other Six, about the progress of the Quest. A terse and thoughtful letter about a folded grapevine on Cobble Hill from Ronnie, a long rambling letter from Bell about a big rock on Street Hill and a mother of all oaks on Spencer Hill, an even more rambling letter from Brooke about a carved rock on Wallens Hill and a bizarre encounter with the Wild Man himself which Lara found frightening but Brooke seemed to think romantic. She decided, accordingly that she would head up Pratt Hill herself, as she had Monday off. It was so warm it was almost hot. Lara wiped sweat from her face and was glad she’d worn short sleeves. The sun was hot and bright on the dull brown leaves. The slope lessened and the top came in sight far above. Lara climbed up an area of broken rocks: odd ricks, curiously square-edged, as if shaped by hands and not nature. One in particular, a four-foot square like a rock table, caught her eye. The hemlock grew greener and there were white birches among them. Then she came out of the shade and into a strange, bright, open place. Low trees, sparse and spreading, stood far apart amid the short hill-grass: ash, hickory, maple, grey and sunlit. There was a certain feel to the place; not queer like Temple Fell, or strange like Spencer Hill, more like the steady, grave regard of an old man with head erect, all others whom he looked at less wise than he. It felt like that. Open, grave and solemn. She first noticed the stones that were tumbled below the edge of the round sloping cap of the hill; odd stones, almost too squared and regular to be natural. Did granite naturally cleave that way? A hemlock stood by itself off to the left, shading some longer stones, and Lara went over to look. What met her eyes was a neat L-shaped cut in the sloping caprock; the edges were straight as if hewn, forming a square pit a couple feet deep. The far side was formed by an erect slab ten feet long, sunk endwise in the earth. “That doesn’t look natural.” Lara mused. She headed across the sloping crown. It dropped in a sudden abrupt tumble of more curiously even stones to the slopes rising up from the far side, as if the smooth dome of the hill-top was a helm of stone upon the sunken head of some primeval giant. And there, above the main slopes, imprinted into the edge of the dome, was another square pit—or rectangular—with one edge an L of cut rock and the other bordered by huge upright slabs. '' Seven stood tall and prints did leave… '' Seriously perturbed, Lara climbed back up on the main slope of the dome. Blue-grey rocks, pale and bright in the sun, stood here and there on the smooth grade. A faint jeep track climbed over the dome. And there, forming a triangle with the first two squares, was a larger L-shaped cut. Lara went on. It could be a prehistoric tower…or it could be something else….or it could be the stone of Pratt Hill’s cap just naturally had a habit of breaking off in near-perfect blocks that looked almost shaped…but Arheled had sent them on this quest, and a tower was the best bet. '' Star-tower…palace of stars… '' She shook her head. She was on the summit now, grassy and bright with sun. A couple of rocks that were anything but square stood nearby, one a pale blue-white chunk three feet high, the other a queer sloping boulder shaped just like a car covered with a tarp and turned to stone. “So this is Pratt Hill.” she said aloud. The air was soft and warm, and very quiet. Lara chuckled. “I bet Brooke is in swimming right now.” she said as she began the climb down. She would have won her bet. Brooke at that moment was jumping off the dam at Stillwater Pond in Torrington, in a swimsuit this time, while Delilah and Vanessa above were shrieking she was crazy. Brook came up gasping and pulled herself out very quickly. “How cold is it?” screamed Delilah, teetering on the brink. Brooke was just standing there, feeling the rush that cold water always brought on and laughing. “Oh, it’s cold, but it’s really good when you’re wet.” she called. “You’re insane, girl!” Vanessa shrieked. Brooke plunged back in and swam around to the fence. Her girlfriends did eventually slide in up to the neck, scream, and climb out. After which it was pretty much just sunbathing for them. Brooke called them wusses. She lay on her back, eyes closed, and remembered that encounter on Wallens Hill. Now that it was two days ago it felt like an adventure, a wild wonderful happening to be recounted and smiled at for a lifetime of memory. She half wished she could meet him again; but then remembered the mocking, wild eyes and the rough kisses, and she both shuddered and thrilled. Bell and Forest were playing truant again. They both felt a little guilty and were reading their textbooks in the park; and laughing about how breathtakingly important it was to know exactly how many products Ecuador exported, or that the Cambrian Period was how many million years long. It was wonderfully warm. It felt like a release. “Say, Forest, why don’t we go and look around Church Hill?” said Bell. “The rhyme didn’t mention it.” argued Forest. Bell fished out her copy. “Does too.” she insisted. “Tenth line deals with two places, cause there’s two hills in the middle: Camp and Church.” “Oh all right.” muttered Forest, getting up''. Have it your way.'' They walked back up Winsted Rd to Dairy Queen and bought a strawberry sundae each. Savoring it as they walked, they dawdled up Main St, Bell talking to Forest and Forest not meeting anyone’s eyes. They came after a while to St. Joseph’s. “Let’s go in.” said Forest. “It’s Catholic.” said Bell dubiously. Forest ignored her and mounted the stairs. Bell threw her empty ice cream dish in the gutter and followed. Inside the church felt cool. They moved up the aisle, looking about with a certain wary interest. Then suddenly Forest stopped. His heart chilled. '' All the statues were masked and shrouded in purple. '' On the side altars, the niches beside the altar, the crucifix, all the statues were veiled. Even the life-size crucifix on the left wore wings of purple. Faceless, awful in majesty, the shrouded statues seemed like hooded figures of doom that might in any moment utter suddenly from their mantled mouths words beyond hearing in voices like thunder. They did not know that this was due to it’s being Holy Week, and that during Lent in older times all Catholic churches shrouded the statues. Forest and Bell backed quickly out of the church. “That was creepy.” Bell shivered. “It was like they were alive under there, watching.” “I want to see that grotto.” said Forest. “But St. Anthony’s School is still on, isn’t it? It’s not even 2:00!” “They should be just getting out.” Forest answered. “You forget I went here for a few years.” He was right. In the crowded parking lot, with a playground full of children nearby, nobody noticed the pair—or nobody noticed Bell, as Forest couldn’t be seen. He looked the grotto over with great interest. “You got that map?” “Never leave home without it.” and she fished it out of one pocket of her backpack. “Thought so.” said Forest. “Look. The grotto’s on the highest part of Church Hill. It’s also in the exact center of the Nine Hills. They’re not very regular, but look, see? This is the midmost place.” They headed back to the park and spent that lovely warm day rambling aimlessly around in the odd swampy woods near Sand Bank Cemetary. They even followed the RR grade’s long high narrow fill across the swamp, until, quite abruptly, it ended at a stone rampart. Still River crawled out of the grassy tussocks to the south and flowed over an old beaver dam. The bridge had long since gone. The grade was a pleasant place, grey beech and brown graceful hornbeam and dark birch growing on the bare earth of the sides. Honeysuckle bushes covered the top, pale whiteish brittle twigs bending aside as one pushed through. They climbed down and waded, but the water was still so icy it numbed their feet in moments and made them ache. “I’m so glad I have you as a brother, Forest.” said Bell suddenly. “It’s just so nice hanging out with you.” Forest gave her a shy but warm smile.'' I couldn’t have asked for a greater gift than to have a sister who is also a friend, '' he thought, but he didn’t say anything. They went over to the College library when evening closed down, as the park was beginning to fill with shadowy loud-voiced young people who were having one beer too many. It closed at eight and they had to head for Forest’s house, as Bell had permission to sleep over for the first time. Mom was super-busy planning the wedding, quiet and simple though it was to be, but she had said all right. They walked up Willow street and Prospect Street, once or twice passing couples or groups of teenagers, and at Bell’s whispered plea Forest met their eyes so Bell wouldn’t seem to be alone. As they climbed up Lake St, Forest turned to look across the valley at lighted Winsted and caught his breath. “What is it?” said Bell. She was getting a little tired, and they still had a couple miles to go. “There is a star on the tower.” Forest said. His voice sounded awed. Bell looked. Across the valley Soldier’s Tower rose, dark above the trees atop its’ hill. A white light gleamed from the roof. “It’s just an aircraft warning light.” she said. “Don’t you see it?” Forest said impatiently. “''There is a star on the tower!''” Bell looked again. Suddenly the world bent just a little and she saw what he meant: there, resting on the tower, gleaming from the hill, was a gigantic star like a burning gem. They rested at the spillway for a long time and got to Wintergreen Island late—the clock said ten. Forest let himself in with his key. The ice had just dissolved over the weekend, and waves were happily chuckling among the stones again. It was a dreamy, familiar sound. Forest and Bell found covered dishes of meatloaf, corn and mashed potatoes in the fridge with a note from Mom saying she’d be back late. They microwaved it and ate quickly, then reeled upstairs. Bell’s room was all ready for her, even a pair of her pajamas on the bed. Dad must have brought them up. They brushed their teeth and waved good night at each other before heading off to bed.